Your Hand In Mine
by jayjayvee
Summary: Sherlock's demons finally catch up with him and they are ripping his ever so brilliant mind to pieces. Can John save Sherlock from himself? T for contemplation of suicide, refrences to drugs, but more to be safe.


A/N: I see this as close brotherhood but you can see it however you want. Reviews are gladly accepted, even if it is only a word or two. Want a continuation? I haven't posted in years? Please review anyway. You can always bring me back to a piece or fandom with a good review even if I've completely moved on. Cyber High-Five for anyone who gets the music reference in the title. I thought the progression of that song fit this nicely. Thanks to the extremely amazing Dinogeek for Beta'ing. Thank you for reading.

Your Hand in Mine

The tiny snowflakes gently landed on the window of 221B Baker Street. A patch work quilt, a mosaic, the pieces of a puzzle falling into place. Ever snowflake is different, no two are alike. But there are still some that stick out, to use a common cliché, like a sore thumb.

Some people say they are beautiful. Some people say that it was their uniqueness that makes them beautiful, mysterious, all the same but all so different. But as Sherlock looked out the window, he didn't see beauty. He saw cold, lifeless, drops of semi-frozen water. Sure they were all different and it would be used as an analogy for people, _we're all different but that makes us the same_, and people would be insufferably stupid and believe that, but _no_ when one got _too_ different they were bad. Defective. A Freak. Of course you can color outside the lines but you must use the same colors as us.

Sherlock hated it all. The conventions of normality. The restrictions of society. He sympathized for the snowflakes. Destined to fall, be a nuisance to others, and then wither away. That was it: the destiny of Sherlock Holmes and _snow_.

He was the world's first and only consulting detective; shouldn't he be happy about that? He could solve cases in five minutes that took half of the world's secret services months; shouldn't he be proud?

_Nope_. Nothing but a painfully hollow feeling and a mind with labyrinths so deep, with places so dark, that even he couldn't stand them. So there he sat letting his massive intellect rip him to pieces.

_You couldn't take it in here! _He wanted to scream._ Five seconds in my mind and you would be ripping your hair out!_ But then again, he almost was too. He didn't want it anymore. This mind that made him suffer, that made others suffer. He wanted everyone as far away as possible. Especially John. _No. No! It's just the depression talking Sherlock. Ignore it. You want John. You __**need**__ John._

He felt that is he were to swing open the window with his typical bravado manner, dramatically step out onto the edge in nothing but his pajamas and silk robe, and jump, face first, into the road below, no one would miss him.

No more "conventions", no more "rules", no more people.

Just death.

And how sweet death would be.

But at the same time, he craved it. He craved that human touch, that connection. He craved for someone to understand him, to help him tear down the walls he created for himself, to find the end of the maze, or at least navigate it with him.

Slowly he raised his hand, long, agile fingers as pale as the snow. _Hmm,_ _maybe I won't have to kill myself after. It seems I'm already dying._

Some would say he was just being dramatic, but no. For once he wasn't as his palm connected with the glass fingers spread wide. The way a child would put their hand in mud to make a handprint. The way a father would open their hand to give a slap. The way someone might raise their hands in surrender. But that's what he was doing, right? Succumbing to his emotions, the want for human touch that would never be satisfied. _Is this as real as I'll ever be? Pushing my hand on the glass of a window because everyone hates me?_

The glass created a halo of fog tracing the shape of his hand. The glass said he was warm but he disagreed. All he could feel was the cold of the world outside piercing into his soul. Was that his job in the world? To absorb all of the cold, everything that everyone else didn't want?

_Yes._

He pressed his cheek onto the glass. Still looking sideways out the window, the glittering lights of London bleary and small through the layer of snow caking the window. _Quiet, calm, peaceful… Hateful. No question about it._

_But what if the glass just broke? What if it couldn't support the weight of me and all my burdens, all my troubles, my past?_

"Hey, Sherlock. You would not _believe _who showed up at the A&E today." John confidently strode into the room, not even glancing around as he immediately spun to hang his coat on the rack and shed of his layers of jumpers and replace his soggy trainers with warm socks and those exquisite Persian slippers Sherlock bought him for his birthday.

He took care to make sure his feet were dry because those slippers probably cost more than his entire wardrobe put together. As he shed his layers he realized that the room was freezing, almost as cold as outside but he ignored it, quickly pulling some new, warm pullovers onto his body.

The simple mundane things we do to pass the time of life.

He still didn't bother to look up. But why would he? Sherlock didn't have a case so he probably hadn't moved from his spot on the sofa all day. John _had_ expected Sherlock to rise to the challenge and take one glance at him and say, "Let me guess. Florence Rose Endellion and her mother Samantha. They were there for some publicity. They're just like the rest of us. We have to go to the A&E just like normal people. Am I right? Of course I am." But Sherlock had a gift for selective hearing and ignoring people so it wasn't odd. At least not until he looked to the sofa and saw it the bare leather and stark Sherlock-less-ness.

"Sherlock?" He asked to empty air, "Sherlock!" He poked his head into the kitchen. Nothing but a smashed set of chemistry bottles and chemicals long since puddled on the floor in a noxious concoction, "What the-" He turned to survey the front room taking in the damage, the shredded books, the broken vase, Union Jack pillow ripped, stuffing flowing out of it like blood, and he wondered how he hadn't noticed it before. How had he not noticed Sherlock, pressed against window, as white as death?

Panic filled him. "Sherlock?" He rushed forward when his friend didn't respond, "Sherlock?" His feet fell heavily on the snowfall of paper coating the floor in a blanket of white. John was flooded with memories of the last time he had seen Sherlock this out of it: when he overdosed. And God, how badly he never wanted to see that again.

How didn't he see him before? _The curtain._ A logical part of his mind entertained._ He was blocked by the curtain._ But even the best of doctors couldn't block that flood of worry that came when someone they cared about became a patient. A rush of a venomous form of adrenaline, a bottomless pit feeling in your gut, that hollowness of emotion replaced by nothing but a need to act. Time runs slow and a second turns into a millennium, every movement takes ages, the edges seem dull, and all you want is to move faster to break from this protective gel that your mind created to cushion the pain.

_Oh my_ _God_. The last time he felt that way was when he was holding a gun ready to shoot a criminal for Sherlock. How he wished he could be there and not pulling his friend from what he thought was a drug induced stupor. What he didn't notice was the absence of a syringe, of a new pock mark on the crook of Sherlock's elbow, just barely exposed beneath his blue, silk robe. All that mattered was reaching him, but, despite that, his hand still hovered above Sherlock's shoulder, too nervous to encroach upon his silent suffering.

"Sherlock." He whispered in a voice barely audible, a sound more like the air being squeezed out of him than an actual word. Sherlock didn't move or respond in any way, "Sherlock." Now it was more like a plead in a soft, comforting voice, "Are you in there?" Gently he laid his hand on his shoulder, making sure not to startle him. But despite his efforts, Sherlock still gave a small, sob-like jerk. John knew something was different this time. This was not a high Sherlock; high Sherlock was usually effervescent in a languid sort of way. This was depressive Sherlock; _God, or more preferably John, please help my mind is torturing me_ Sherlock. John hadn't seen him _this_ bad before, this lost to the world outside.

Sherlock could be a prick, tactless, and completely insensitive but he wasn't a sociopath. John hadn't only seen his heart but had it given to him. But now, hand on the shoulder of the lifeless figure, he would have taken a raving Sherlock to the almost dead one. Now Sherlock sat there, staring beyond the window to somewhere filled with horrors only he could see, hand pressed wide against the glass, his cheek resting on it the way you would lay your head to the chest of a child to feel the heartbeat, so far gone that he couldn't even feel the hand of his dearest friend gracing his shoulder as he rolled in the terrors of life. "Sherlock." John heard his voice crack as he whimpered the name again, begging him.

When Sherlock didn't move again, John turned Sherlock towards him. Those hollow eyes sent a shiver through him and he almost laughed when he reflexively thought, _I hope Sherlock didn't notice that._ But how could he have? The man looked so… broken, a shell the brilliant man he was.

Sherlock _did_ notice when warmth replaced the glass and his cheek wasn't so cold. Tears filled his eyes unintentionally. _If this is death, then I am sorry. I have been a horrible person._ The room swam back to him. _Why must the world go round and leave me in its wake? Why must the teddy bear go round and round the garden? And round and round and round and roundandroundandround? _Deep reds and beige. The colors of a dead fire. The browns of a jumper. The warmth of a hand.

John could have asked why Sherlock was crying but he already knew.

Sherlock could have stopped but he didn't.

They still sat by the window, facing each other, eyes locked, John's hand cupping Sherlock's cheek where the cold glass had once been, hands pressed together, John's small, work-worn hands not measuring up to Sherlock's long, almost delicate ones.

"I was so close to the edge."

John didn't know how to respond.

The tears made a drip art piece on the carpets. Sherlock tightened his hand around John's. John pressed his hand closer to Sherlock's face. Through simple actions they spoke the novels that they couldn't pen.

Sherlock clung to the tangibility of John as if he would fade away and he would be left again in the ruins of his mind. John moved his hand down to Sherlock's shoulder letting him absorb of all his warmth into his freezing body.

Only then did he notice how violently Sherlock was shaking.

Only then did he involuntarily clench Sherlock's shoulder.

Only then did Sherlock finally let himself sob.

He collapsed onto John's shoulder, his face the perfect picture of pain. With his free hand he grabbed a fistful of the other man's jumper and wadded it up, knuckles turning stark white. He convulsed with the sobs, wanting to be in control, wanting to stop making a fool of himself in front of John, wanting to erase the past and purge himself of pain. People said pain makes us human. Sherlock disagreed; animals could feel pain. He could feel pain. All he wanted was to end this pain. But when was the last time he got what he wanted?

So he let John gently guide him to the sofa, the hand on his shoulder now moved to his back, never breaking contact. He let his form limply fall onto John's chest gaining comfort and warmth from the circles John was making on his back.

The words of comfort fell on bruised ears but he listened all the same knowing that John was there and he could cry to the end of time and John wouldn't complain. That was what he wanted. Maybe once he would get it. It was worth a try. So that's what he did, try. And not once did he let his lovingly tight grip loosen on John's hand.

"It's alright. I'm here now." John internally cursed his stupidity. How could he have left him alone, not seen the signs that this might happen, "You're safe."

"I was so close to edge." Sherlock whimpered into John's shoulder, voice unsteady with the residue of fear.

"I know but I'm here now."

"But what happens when you leave? That's what they all do. Who will be here to save me from myself?"

"I will always be here for you. I will stay. I swear."

"That's what they all say." Sherlock mused sadly.

John was slightly offended when he replied, "Sherlock listen to me. You need to understand, I'm not like everyone else. I will never break a promise to you. Ever." With this Sherlock's sobs became renewed and his fingers groped at the fabric on the smaller man's back looking for purchase in a world that seemed to be slipping away from him into a newer, better place.

"You wanna talk about it? I mean what you were thinking about, what had you so upset." John hesitated, almost choking on his words, wanting to slurp them back. Sherlock shook his head anyway and John decided not to pry. So they sat there, John having draped a blanket over Sherlock's shoulders in an attempt to still his shaking. Time passed but neither man knew how much. They didn't move, their hands still interlocked, as if breaking the connection of skin would rip them both apart.

"It was me. And my past…" John was surprised to hear Sherlock reply after a long wait. He hesitated before speaking again, "And you… I was so close to the edge." He buried his face farther down to hide the tear trails on his cheeks.

"Sherlock. I will always be there to pull you back from the edge, understand?" John thought it was a lame response but Sherlock's shoulders slumped and his breathing evened. John would have thought he was asleep until he broke the warm silence that had fallen over the flat.

"Thank you." Sherlock's hand in his. A simple squeeze. That was all it took for John to say, _Any time. I will always be here for you._ Sherlock squeezed back. _I believe you. I need to. I need you to chase the demons away. _

"I will always chase them away."


End file.
